Cast in a thrift store trench coat
he’s not moving, not talking
Maybe he’s already dead, a sculpture
leaning against a skyscraper as an afterthought
Another young man, white, brisk walking,
going somewhere in proper uniform:
wears a cashmere scarf, gold quartz watch,
spit shined wing tipped shoes
Swinging briefcase smartly
in rush hour parade,
Sixth Avenue, Manhattan, NYC,
he doesn’t care for the smirk he gets
Stomach in, ass tight,
he feels himself a classic,
heels clicking on pavement,
eyes trained to avoid another
Shifting fifty stories
side to side on his shoulders,
the sculpture pretends not to see him,
doesn’t offer a blink
Well, possibly, one pupil flashes,
bouncing a reflection
off the crystal ruins
in the Age of Glass